


A girl called Passion

by LiAtlas



Category: British Actor RPF, Conventions - Fandom
Genre: F/M, General convention madness, It's whatever I want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:39:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiAtlas/pseuds/LiAtlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I really should not have come, knowing I would be alone.</p>
<p>I hate being alone. I came anyway. I should have brought a friend, ha- what friends. Some people just are not made to get along with others.</p>
<p>Sometimes it takes the right person to see through all of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kind.

It is quiet except when the people come and go.

I am pressed up against the far corner, knees smashing my chest and crushing my nose as I hide.

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow, they come and go, come and go.

Shouting, screaming, crying, hurried explanations, gasps of astonishment and sobs of joy.

A mess of familiar convention conduct that puts hot tears to my eyelashes.

Today is not my day. So I hide under the guise of the abashed cosplayer.

Hours.

Hours go by.

I shift only as each limb goes individually numb.

That time of night is arriving.

Children have been ushered to bed, energized fans huddle in groups at the far corners of the hotel, but few now wander the halls.

The elevator is barren.

I cry quietly. I am lonely. I am afraid. I should not have come.

Another guest. Silence. They leave.

Lonely still.

I fall asleep.

Staff prods me awake, they tell me “you can’t sleep in here, sorry!”

They leave. I go back to sleep.

I am awake again, jostled by a shift of weight. I think.

There is a pillow under my head. It is cool and nice.

Confusion laps lazily at my toes as they curl under warm blankets.

This is not the elevator. I bet I am in trouble. Removed forcefully by staff.

I do not care. The bed is nice. I do not want to move.

I do not move.

I relax.

I should be afraid. I am not.

I do not care enough.

I probably will be later. It tends to happen that way.

Later comes sooner than I wanted.

Moments. Seconds. The bed groans under added weight and I am still.

“I don’t imagine the elevator was a pleasant place to sleep,” They are British.

They seem jovial, kind. This is suspicious. They are a ‘he.’

“Take as long as you like, I don’t mind. Just don’t take anything a’right?”

They get up. A warmth is missing from my side, I did not even realize it had been there.

They shuffle around. They leave.

I am alone. I do not know how I feel. I think I am scared, but it does not feel scared.

It feels warm, and cozy. Like feathers. The person is kind.

They saved me from the cold floor. Put me in their bed.

You do not find people like that every day.

I want to be his friend.

I really want to be his friend.

I need to be.

I do not even know him. His face. His name. Even his voice is new.

I do not know many Britons.

Two to be exact.

I need that to be three. But he has gone. I do not think he expects me to stay here.

Kindness only goes so far, they say.

I bristle.

I grumble into the pillow.

I argue with my dry hair.

I speak to no one and everyone.

He should not have bothered with me if he did not want a reaction.

People are complicated. They should be simple, they are not.

I am complicated.

Or maybe I am just that simple.

I force myself out of the bed. Look around. Everything is unfamiliar.

Wine glasses, beer bottles, and ashtrays with missing cigarettes, a woman’s bra.

A player. I am suspicious.

I do not want to judge. But I have anyway.

Arizona tea cans tumble on the counter-tops. Bottle-openers and chocolate covered sweets.

A pack of cigarettes, menthols, long. Sweet.

He is sugary.

There is a suitcase, tightly zipped and unassuming.

I look but do not touch.

It says nothing.

The room smells stale. A barely-used hotel room.

Normal.

He has so little to be a con-goer. It confuses me.

The bathroom looks spotless. The shower has been used, once at least. The curtains tell a story.

I ignore it. I look at myself and run fingers through my ratty hair.

So unattractive, bland, and brown.

Maybe I wish I was still blond.

Everybody liked blonds.

Maybe he likes blonds.

_He is a stranger_. What he likes does not matter.

Pursed lips and discomfort.

I wash my face and exit.

I stand for a moment more, observing, soaking, remembering.

I leave. I close the door softly behind me.

The lock clicks.

Suddenly I am alone again.

I should never have come.


	2. Reasons.

The room is hot, sweltering, I feel like I’m dying.

The bed is cool. The duvet is hot.

I push it off and burrow into the sheets.

The television is loud, alive, jabbering away. I watch Jimmy Kimmel.

I _listen_ to Jimmy Kimmel.

The pillow is crisp, soft but sharp.

Jimmy Kimmel is introducing someone famous. I think it is Hugh Jackman.

I peek, it is Hugh Laurie.

He is British.

I like his accent. I smile because I like these things. They make me happy.

I pay attention, watching their banter on stage. It is amusing.

Makes me forget that I am alone. Distracts me from the stranger.

I am obsessed with him.

I have never been saved before.

I wonder if it is unhealthy, latching onto kindness. You may not get kindness in return.

Even worse. I do not care.

I want to know him anyway.

I am determined.

Hugh Laurie makes a joke. Everyone laughs.

I laugh. I smile.

I like Hugh Laurie. I like House.

He is handsome. He is British. I do like British people.

Is that awful?

I do not think so.

I think it is wonderful.

I imagine they have their assholes too.

No worse than Americans.

The stranger is British. Maybe that is why I like him.

Why I want to find him so badly.

That sounds biased and unfair. Not right. Not kind. Not a good reason.

I do not care.

I will do it anyway.

The sheets are getting warm, I am uncomfortable now. Again.

At least I have Hugh Laurie.

He is nice.

I fall asleep because he is so nice. That is what I hoped for.

I do not know how long I sleep. 

Not the whole morning.

It is late noon though.

I wake up warm and cozy, no longer uncomfortable. I like the warm now.

I do not want to leave, so I do not.

I stay there curled up in a ball. Reveling at how the mattress feels against my skin.

I pay attention to how it rubs against my shoulders and exposed chest.

The feeling is nice, pleasant. I lay there warm and content.

The room is no longer hot, but cool. But not bad cool, just chilly- er.

I should get up. I do not want too.

I do though, I get up and tremble all the way to the bathroom.

The bathroom really is cold.

The tiles are freezing.

I strip and force myself into the shower. Only when the cold is gone, replaced with warm.

It is nice, steam makes the cold go away. Better.

I take advantage of hotel showers, I take all the time in the world.

Never thinking about other people. Why should I?

They do not think of me.

But they do, no _he_ does. He did. He thought of me on that elevator floor.

He picked me up and hid me in his bed, let me sleep.

Told me I could take my time.

Was kind.

Should I not think of others too?

No. I want to take my shower. And I want to take it as long as I like.

So I do.

I take an hour.

I get out and get dressed.

I wear the same clothes. A long sleeved shirt, striped, green 

Baggy jeans, two sizes too big, no belt.

Old shoes, they are falling apart. Have been for years.

I love them really.

No one looks at my shoes. Much.

I do not care, I shrug into them and leave.

The hall is alive, like the television.

People are everywhere, crowding the elevators, rushing for the stairs.

Coming out of the stairs.

I stand there, I watch Amanda Abbington lunge out of the stairwell alongside Martin. 

I am surprised. Too surprised to say anything.

She is laughing, hard.

They do not escape unscathed. A slew of girls approach them, albeit nicely.

They receive autographs, giggle and chat a bit.

I go back to my room, close the door.

I leave again. Five minutes later.

They are gone. Like a fairytale. It probably never happened.

Satisfied I step into the nearest elevator and head for the mezzanine.

Curiosity makes me wonder, maybe they are roomed on my floor?

No. Cannot be.

Too famous. Stupid idea.

I shake my head, I exit when the doors open.

I almost regret leaving, but I have to eat. I want to eat.

Slipping through the crowd is easy, nobody is so close that it is impossible.

Groups gossip and scream, others cosplay and re-enact scenes from the show. People groan and grumble, some kiss while others take photos.

It is a mad-house. I love it. It makes me feel less lonely.

Because I am not the only crazy person here, not the only one dreaming and wishing.

Everyone else is too.

I approach the bar, order fries and sit. No soda.

I am trying to stop that.

I need to drink less coffee.

And I have to be in the mood for tea.

So nothing for me.

A couple set up camp beside me. I glance at them repeatedly.

A man and woman dressed as Sherlock and a gender-bent Watson. They look great really.

I want to ask for hugs, I do not. I do not need too, they have noticed my staring.

They engage in conversation. I oblige, I like it.

They are married have been for seven years. Mary and John, shocking enough.

We laugh.

My food comes, I eat my fries, “do you want some?” I ask.

“No no!” They say, but Mary takes a few anyway. I smile.

They talk about panels then, I lose them. I have not paid attention to event scheduling.

“Are you going?” Asks John, I shrug.

“I don’t know, what am I going to?” I reply, he looks surprised. So does Mary.

They explain, excitedly, whole-heartedly. They are mad for it.

It is Benedict’s panel. Benedict Cumberbatch, he was to have two this weekend.

Both for different things.

This first one was supposedly a fan Question and Answer concerning season four.

“It’s not even out yet?” it’s a theory panel, a fiction panel they say.

That is new, I have never heard of such a thing.

I did not think Benedict did things like that.

He was always saying during interviews, “I try to keep neutral ground!”

Such a panel would completely tip that ‘neutral ground.’

Maybe the Elementary Con got to his head, he was expecting good behavior.

I hope he got it.

What a thing.

My fries are gone, John and Mary have to go, the panel starts soon.

“Do you want to come?” Mary asks. I look at her and my empty fry basket.

Do I want to go? Do I want to go and ogle at Benedict Cumberbatch?

Yes I do. “Nah, maybe next time?”

I did not want to be there for this.

Poor guy.

Does not know what he is doing I do not think.

They leave. I leave.

I walk through the room, considerably less packed. People have gone to see Benedict I bet.

There are Amanda and Martin again, holding hands, then not. Then again.

They are talking, walking, heading toward the opposite end of the mezzanine.

They look like they are trying to avoid fans.

Should not have come through the Mezzanine. Stairs would have been wiser.

So maybe they were there on purpose.

Why would they do that?

Confused I walk away, Amanda glanced at me, I ran away.

She was just looking past me anyway.

My room is like a refuge, surprising me. I did not know I had missed it.

I search through my things for the event schedule, I know it is somewhere.

It is there, crumpled underneath my suitcase, ripped and stained looking.

“hmmph,”

I know who the guests are, I remember being disappointed.

Louise Brealey had had to cancel on personal grounds. I had been very upset.

Still am sort of.

Frowning I read through the planned events.

He really did have two, no- he had _three_.

What was wrong with him?

One starting right now, another one late late tonight, and one tomorrow morning around eleven.

The one tonight nearly started at one in the morning. Apparently alcohol would be present.

Eighteen and up, and sweets according to the blurb.

Otherwise there was not much on what the panel was actually for.

Maybe it was not an event so much as a party? Did special guests do that sort of thing?

I do not know.

Do I want to know? Probably… Yes.

I could make that one. I am always up that late.

Was I allowed to go? I scour the notes, pry at the images to search for hidden subtext.

Nothing. Just the age-limit and a limited explanation of things.

Hum, I might never know unless I show up.

I would. Just show up.

See what happens yeah?

I smile a small smile, but my heart does not feel it.

My heart feels weird, pressing, and heavy.

My chest feels like somebody has sat upon it, like a cat perhaps. A fat one.

It sort of hurts, but not enough to make me cry, or even whimper.

I sit on my hotel room floor and wonder.

I wonder about the reasons why I came.

Did I not come to see Benedict Cumberbatch specifically?

No.

I came because I love his television series. I love Sherlock.

That is why I came.

Not because of Benedict. 

My heart did weird things over Benedict.

It used to do flip-flops and bing-bangs.

Now I did not know how I felt. It was up in the air.

It did not matter, I enforce this. 

He was off-limits. Forbidden fruit. Almost seventeen years my senior.

Not interested in younger women, according to the press, and not-looking anyway.

And I am almost positive that he has entered a relationship with Louise Brealey.

The amount of time they are rumored to be together is astonishing.

That plus the pictures popping up all over the Internet in recent months.

All of it points toward a steadfast coupling between the two.

This makes me truly smile, I like Loo and Benedict.

They seem so wonderful together, they enjoy one another.

He deserves that.

He deserves to be happy.

Of course so does she.

But Benedict does more, I think.

No, he does.

Because it is Benedict.

My heart does a flop.

Nothing more.

I really should not have come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it's making sense you all, at least remotely ha ha.
> 
> We see a bit of Amanda and Martin in this one. They'll be explained better later on. Enjoy!


	3. Chinese.

The Mezzanine is blissfully quiet, I am very alone.

But it is not a bad alone this time.

I stare down at the paper in my hand, eyeing the scrawled numbers there.

John and Mary, Mary had given me her number.

I called it.

We were meeting for a later lunch.

I had made some friends.

This made me so happy. Someone shrieked, I look up.

The doors crash open.

A deluge of fans and cosplayers ooze from the space alloted.

Everyone talks so fast. I don not bother trying to understand it.

Like a foreign language.

Some are crying.

Some are laughing.

Some are laughing so hard they are crying.

I search for Mary, unsure whether to be embarassed or amused.

Two girls and a boy throw themselves against my shoulder.

They laugh and pet at my shirt dramatically, “sorry!! Oh my gosh!!” They rush away.

Scratch that, I am very much embarassed.

Red-faced and uncomfortable is how Mary finds me. Singling me out like an anomaly.

“You look so out of place! God dear loosen up!” she exclaims, like I am a child.

She even hugs me like a child.

I feel like I have been chastised in some way.

Not sure which one quite yet.

John is there then, chuckling at some private thing “Have you been waiting long?”

Like the proper British gentleman that he was not.

“No,” I nod. I am lying.

We agree on Chinese, which required walking through the air walk.

I have only been on one other before, in Kansas City, at the Naka-kon.

It takes us time to get there; the food-court is on the other side of the hotel. Separated from the convention center.

They are leaking at the ears with excitement.

They have not stopped talking about the panel.

Mary has swooned at least seventeen times while discussing the subject of Benedicts clothing alone.

John plays falsely wounded and I am amused to watch them.

I offer very little, except for trying to change the topic.

I did not go.

I do not know what they talk about. It bothers me.

Mary tells me to loosen up again, “It’s like walking with a wrinkly old woman, without the wrinkles.”

My face is teased; alien fingers scrunch up my eyes to create wrinkles.

They are laughing. I am forced to admit defeat.

I laugh too.

I force myself to be less sullen, plowing concern to the sidelines.

We slow down a little, taking time to switch subjects.

We admire the different cosplay uniforms.

A woman has dressed in a homemade TARDIS dress, and crossed it with a female Sherlock topping.

It is ingenious, we “oo” and “aa” at her.

After Mary gets some pictures we are moving again.

There is a Howl pulling along a tenth Doctor.

Sherlock and Watson sub and dom couple.

Sherlock and Watson gender-bent dominatrix couple.

I spy a few Irene Adler’s huddled in a group.

The steampunk crossovers take my breath away, and Johns from the faces he makes.

There are Sherlock and Molly couples, gender-bent, steampunk, and bdsm covers.

I nearly fall over when I literally run into a Mycroft and Lestrade, working as lovers.

It was my turn to be fluttery and shy, my hands never seem to sit still.

I am embarassed and excited, immediately forgetting about previous concerns.

Suddenly I am swept into my own brand of convention madness.

Hugs are given, pictures taken, poses made, and even a funny little video.

The Mycroft is a stunning replica of Mark Gatiss, although with obvious differences.

His name is Marcus, funny enough. We get a hoot from this.

His boyfriend, Carmen, looks very little like Lestrade but pulls off his ideals to the T.

After some short discussion they agree to have lunch with us.

All of a sudden we are more than friends. We are a group.

We have ascended into the next tier of convention hierarchy.

I am no longer alone.

I am overjoyed. I can hardly remember why I was upset.

The Chinese bar is packed.

We wait a half-hour, order our food, and sit down.

We chatter about nothing and anything.

Marcus and Carmen missed the panel. Mary and John fill them in.

I tune out, unwilling to be dragged into that sort of crazy.

It is not easy.

According to John no actual spoilers for the season were revealed.

Fans mostly asked Benedict questions.

About him.

His work for the next year.

Secret projects.

Curiousity toward his internet usage.

Apparently one question was asked about his sexuality.

Leading to a surprisingly filling conversation on dungeons, sex toys, and experimentation.

I can only imagine the reasoning behind some of the tears from earlier.

John and Mary both assured that Benedict gave very little concerning his preferences.

But people were going to assume anyway.

I felt as though I had just been given a brief insight on the man.

The man who blushed and waved his hands during interviews.

Could not keep his hands off of his thighs.

Was constantly nervous and playing it down with the best of them.

Perhaps the starling was coming out of his shell.

Was there ever a shell?

Mayhap we were never paying attention.

Who might know.

I shrug. I chew on my noodles.

Marcus decides he likes me.

I cannot imagine why.

Carmen likes me also, but is not nearly as touchy as Marcus.

It does not bother him. It bothers me.

Just a bit.

But I like Marcus.

We smile at each other, my heart flops.

I think we could be friends.

Maybe coming was not such a bad idea after-all.


	4. Twisted.

Our late lunch transitioned into a late dinner. Into a late evening.

Stuffed with unusually good Parmesan chicken, we retreated to John and Mary’s room.

Games were played.

Truth or dare.

Twister.

Marcus may have looked good. But he could not stretch for anything.

Carmen knocked him out first.

In the end it was a twenty-minute championship between he and Mary.

I would not lie, she was incredibly flexible.

My thoughts were on less than appropriate things watching them.

I figured, so were Johns.

Now I am embarassed.

Mary is straining. Carmen is grinning.

Marcus and John root for their partners.

I cannot choose one.

I like them both.

I root for Mary.

Carmen slips. He has lost.

John sweeps Mary into a great hug and Marcus consoles his lover.

I am suddenly out of place; Marcus tries to make up for it.

“Come to our room Savs! Car brought the best chocolate,” He offers. Smiles.

I smile back, nod my head.

“No, I’d rather be in mine.” He frowns and I feel bad.

Why? I should not feel bad for expressing my wants.

It is not hurting anyone.

But I do.

I shrug, “sorry, I’m heading to bed guys.” I wave and goodnights are bid.

Carmen and Marcus break away in the hall, heading toward the fourth floor.

I am on the third.

Should I take the elevator or run the stairs?

I sweep into the stairwell, trip, and catch myself.

Not before twisting my ankle.

Should have taken the elevator, it is not too late. I turn to look at the door and wince.

I will keep going.

It takes a whole lot longer on the stairs than the elevator, nursing a swelling ankle did not help.

Irritation has taken the place of earlier comfort, driving me home.

A door clangs and I groan, someone else to contend with.

I slide over to the side, hugging the wall. The stairwell is surprisingly narrow, I hate narrow places.

Footsteps jog easily down the stairs, passing the door above, _pap pap_ _pap_.

They stop, just a few steps above my flight.

“You alright there?” I turn, no.

Do not turn. Of course I turn. This is not some fanfiction, this is real life. This stuff does not happen to me.

I am horrified. Martin Freeman is giving me a peculiar look, curious and weary.

This is that moment you read about in stories.

Time is supposed to freeze, the winds of fate blowing through your hair.

Fingers tingling, heart racing, blushing accordingly.

Something would draw him to me; he would touch me, express concern and worry.

He would lead me into a friendship that could ultimately become a life-altering decision.

Everything that could possibly happen races through my head at that moment.

While my mind lived a fantasy the reality moved on.

Things like that did not really happen. Silly girl.

That is why fantasy was a thing.

Instead of becoming my Prince Charming he was simply a generous citizen.

“God that looks right awful,” He glances up, “do that on the stairs did you?” He skips down to settle just below me.

I am petrified. Not even my jaw drops.

“That’s alright, don’t say anything, it’s cool-“ He does touch me, picks gingerly at the hem of my pant-leg.

“Eugh.” Stop it. “Need to get ice on it I’d say, sooner than later yeah?”

Suddenly the world shifts in perspective, I am confused.

The man before me is an actor, a really good one I always thought.

Stealing the hearts of millions with one performance.

He is not a normal man. No he is not. He cannot be.

He must be some sort of God for sure.

I am so confused. I am so unsure. All of me is hot, embarassed. I do not want him to touch me.

I want him to go away, pretend he never saw me.

Let me disappear.

Let me roll down the stairs and break to pieces.

Just keep on going, ignore the stranger. Is that not what mothers taught their children? Stranger danger.

“You… Just gonna stand there all night then?” He looks critical now, unsure himself.

My mind is a scattered mess.

I cannot think straight.

The drama queen inside has been let loose to wreak havoc on my system.

“What floor you staying on?” His expression becomes something more concerned now. But still rightfully cautious.

“Third.” I reply, how could I manage it? I can hardly contain a coherent thought.

“Right, we’re heading the same direction, I could help you down if you like?”

Kindness.

It blares through the writhing tangle of heat in my stomach.

I stare at him blankly for what feels like forever.

I am nodding.

I nod.

He has offered me a hand and I take it. Cautiously, carefully. He notices I think.

Martin Freeman helps me down the staircase.

He keeps a gracious amount of room between us without leaving me on my own.

His arms are stronger than they look.

I purse my lips.

He opens the door to the third floor, I blink in the light.

“Okay-“ He watches me sharply, not touching. “I’ll see you around then,”

With a curt nod he is trailing down the opposite end of the floor.

I watch him until he is gone.

Until he enters a room, not once looking back.

I continue standing there. I have experienced what some may call an “opportunity.”

I call it genuine surprise.

I call it _kindness_.

And I am more terrified in that moment than I have been in a long time.

I all but run to my room, lock my door, and lay in bed. Dazed. Confused.

Things like that just did not happen to me.

They were fictional happenstances created by an over-zealous fandom.

What even.

I spy the event pamphlet, and I grab it. Snatching it open to re-evaluate the midnight event.

Did I really want to go to that?

Was I really contemplating pushing my luck further?

Luck, who said anything about luck. Luck was false. Coincidences were more likely.

But multiple times in a row, that in itself was bizarre.

That had fate written all over it. I tended to stay away from fateful encounters if I could.

Never had the intended effect.

I do not even know anymore.


	5. Babe.

Nine ‘o two. Exactly.

My phone vibrates, I start. Wakefulness makes everything groggy.

I seem to have fallen asleep, again.

I was doing that a lot this weekend.

 _Marcus and Carmen just got into a fight, could you come up?_ – Mary 9:02pm, my screen reads.

I blink, confused. Marcus and Carmen?

Oh. Yes. The homosexual boys. Mycroft and Lestrade. Them.

They got into a fight? I text this back to her and toss my phone.

A weight in my chest settles, letting me know I do not want to be a part of this.

The mattress trembles.

I grumble.

 _Yeah, come up please?_ – Mary 9:03pm.

Why was she insistent that I be there?

I literally met the woman just that morning.

She was making house calls on our ‘group’ status. This bothers me.

I should not have given them my number, I think. But I immediately regret it. I would have been lonely.

 _I’m sorry it’s so sudden, but please? It’s really bad, we’re trying not to get the hotel involved_ – Mary 9:06pm.

I stare; this was most definitely not something I wanted to be involved in.

My shoes are uncomfortable on my feet as I trudge up from the bed.

My ankle has lost its swelling. It only aches now.

Stupid thing.

The hallway is empty. I look both ways anyway.

With a heaviness in my heart I hitch the elevator up to the next floor.

I think I want to turn back.

I need too.

Trepidation leaves my knuckles hanging over the boys’ door.

How did I know this was their room? 219.

My phone vibrates again, reminding me that Mary provided it to me. I peek at it.

 _Nevermind_ – Mary 9:13pm

I knock once. Twice. Three times.

The door flies open and I am ushered inside.

Fear, I am afraid. I want to turn and flee.

She was not kidding. It was horrible.

Marcus had curled up on the bed, rocking, sobbing softly.

Carmen lied on the floor, holding his nose, there was blood everywhere.

Somebody had tossed a stray toothbrush to the side; I kicked it with my shoe.

It was also lathered in blood.

“What even?” I could not begin to comprehend. Confusion. I should not have come.

John appeared from what I assume was the bathroom, brown stained cloth in his hands.

He was incredibly pissed off. “Just a stupid disagreement that Marcus took out of context.” He provides.

“Apparently he-“ Marcus is pointed at “forgot to bring pills for a lovely case of bi-polar disorder,” John went on.

Mary was hidden behind the bar, putting good distance between she and them.

Like they were going to bite her.

So what did she want me for? She had not spoken a word to me.

This made me mad.

All of this made me mad.

“So what am I here for?” I grit. Fists rolled. Marcus shifts, I am watching him.

“I don’t even know, Mary!”

Suddenly the couple is arguing from across the room, Mary is animated.

Marcus has uncurled himself and is joining in on the yelling.

My phone vibrates, I tear it open.

 _Go away, don’t let them drag you into this. Sorry babe xoxo_ – C 9:34pm

I am looking at Carmen then. There is no phone in sight. But I know it is from him.

He was calling me ‘babe’ earlier.

I take his advice.

I walk away.

I slam the door.

I storm through the hall, into the elevator.

A sense of dramatics having been fitted into my pysche. I did not like it. I hated it.

What a stupid way to wake up from a nap.

What a dumb reason to drag me up there for.

Their problems were their own, let them suffer for it.

I had no qualms in calling them every name under the sun, under my breath and in my head.

If Mary knew what was best, she would not text me again.

I would not be giving my number to anyone else.

Such terrible drama at one convention, in the span of one day was too much.

On top of that my ankle was starting to throb again.

All of this angry stomping was irritating it.

I get angrier.

I tear out into my hallway. Furious. Flabbergasted at the world. Fate, what have you.

I let out a sound that was not a yell, yet was not a scream.

I cry because I am mad.

I cry because that just was not fair.

It was all so good and then BAM. That.

I have thrown myself into one of the comfy chairs in front of the elevator.

I am curled in on myself.

I am shivering in my own self-misery.

I am suddenly back to square one.

This convention was a waste of time.

One small, awful, act of kindness was no reason to subject ones self to torture.

Who cares if he rescued me from the floor?

Who cares if he was British?

Who cares if Martin Freeman helped me on the stairs?

Who gives two absolute shits?

It was like home except with strangers.

How dare they.

This was my escape.

How dare they ruin it for me.

My phone is vibrating, the timing is different. Someone is calling me.

It is Mary.

I am on my feet, and have chucked my phone down the opposite hallway.

I regret it.

My feet carry me on to retrieve it, my chest constricted with agitation.

I do not want to talk to Mary.

I want to go home.

The phone is warm, she has called twice, left one voicemail.

Who cares. I turn the contraption off.

Slip it into my pocket.

And forget.

A clock reads ten-fourteen pm.

Two hours until the party.

I steel myself against the rush of dissatisfaction and anxiety.

To go, or not to go?

Perhaps I could wrangle up a wrap and go as Cinderella.

Because I was going. Even if it meant making a fool of myself.

I would show up at that door, and do…something.

Anything but sit in my room and do nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, didn't update for a bit. 
> 
> Have quite a bit going on, job hunting, birthday parties and crap- the whole shebang. Otherwise. We see some development, we get at least something to call our main lady, and we see some of the shittier convention life. Because you cannot have a convention without con drama. It's not allowed?? And somehow unethical.. I think. 
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!


	6. Tingling.

I was only very lucky to be here.

And by lucky I mean _lucky_.

One out of forty-five chances lucky.

The ridiculous sort of lucky that follows up traumatic events.

That tend to lead to even more traumatic events.

As long as the fairytales are not lying to us.

It has been said that history has a grim sense of humour at best.

I cannot find it in myself to grin, and so hide suspiciously behind a wide glass.

The margarita it once held being swiftly drained in response to over-active nerves.

There were probably around sixty bodies present, give or take a few.

Identifying the famous ones was painfully easy.

I made the decision to stick to the bar.

I do not think the bouncer likes me, he keeps looking at me.

Thus attending my drink also put considerable distance between that trainwreck.

Martin Freeman is somewhere off in an adjoining room, I reason.

Amanda is sharing company with Benedict, both of whom were barred against the couch.

It reminded me of a stockade, fans at the ready with markers and material.

I shrug my shoulders in an attempt to disappear.

No such luck.

Rupert Graves is seated a few stools down from me.

Talking casually with a few female admirers, even signing a thing or two.

Taking it all in stride.

I knew he was supposed to be here.

Did not think I would get to see him.

Did not think I would come to this party either.

Did not think a lot of things would happen.

So far I was regretting this thought process.

I frown.

Mayhap I should just stop thinking tonight.

Things might slide by smoother that way.

Or they could fall completely apart.

They might do that anyway.

I frown deeper, pulling the crystal bowl between my teeth.

My margarita is gone, bugger.

All of me was so caught up trying to remain inconspicuous. There was no room to admire.

Fleeting glances of Benedicts hair or the snort of Amanda’s laughter were foreign entities to me.

I did not strive to see more, I strove to avoid the whole package.

Why was I even here?

I should not have come, what a stupid decision.

I wonder if Mary has called?

The phone is cold, dead in my hands. I remember then, I shut it off.

The screen flickers to life and I wait anxiously.

Two more times she has called, no texts.

Wait- Carmen texted, three times. He explains the situation in broken chat speak.

I think I cringe, but I cannot be sure.

That is it, no excessive attention for me. I am no longer important to their cause.

Relief pervades the sense of dread that carried with me on shutting the device down.

And yet I am also very tense, uptight.

They are my friends. _Were_ my friends. Perhaps they no longer want me.

I abandoned them.

They dragged me into a tottering situation.

They had no right to do that.

I just met them.

Anger jabs a hot finger against my heart, I glare before turning to order another drink.

I take my chances with a cosmo, having heard of its _ethereal_ qualities from past encounters.

Taking the newly acquired drink I sip, wince, screw up my lips, and sip again.

New, unfamiliar, but not entirely awful. An acquired taste.

“Not so good eh? I’ve never really cared much for Cosmo’s. Froncy things.”

A glance is all I need.

Rupert moved over, he is beside me now. Receiving a refill of his drink, a bitter ale.

I do not know what kind. Beer is beyond me; I do not care for it.

Do not even care to know the different brands.

Maybe it is not even bitter, I shrug. “Why not.” He lifts an eyebrow.

Should I use proper adjectives? Immaculate, perfectly arched, winged.

No, that one silly eyebrow is none of those things I do not think.

It is… painfully normal, by fanfiction standards.

I am not positive if this is disappointing or alleviating.

Rupert Graves is a normal guy from the look on his face, the slouch of his posture, the tug at his mouth.

He is so very, very _normal_.

Like Martin.

Probably just like Amanda and Benedict.

I spare a peek around his back; Benedict is standing now and making wild hand gestures.

He looks excited and taken-aback all at once, warring with both expressions.

I grimace, Amanda is standing now to.

They are articulating something amusing, laughter fills the room.

Rupert follows my gaze, and snorts. “Special lot, what are-“ He leans in a little.

Like he can hear them if he moves just a few inches.

I cover my mouth.

What an idiot.

“Oh I don’t even know, probably romanticising his mothers owls or some shit.”

Rupert turns back to me, he grins wide. He has nice teeth.

He has very white teeth.

I focus on this before he shuts his lips, still grinning.

He is learned.

“So, you got a name love?” Harmless, smiling.

“Do you?” I shoot back, muddled with a sudden desire for cockiness. I blanch a bit.

Re-thinking that decision instantly.

“I do, but let’s be cliché: you have me at a disadvantage, you know mine, I don’t know yours.”

It was not the wittiest reply ever, but made his point.

Maybe cockiness was not the route to go.

Sassy perhaps?

“My friends call me Savs, sorry..” Or- terribly bland and normal. That works to.

“Not very good with the back and forth are you?” He chuckles, I flush, he waves it off.

“It’s alright, really, I wasn’t either back way when-“ His makes a motion with his hand. “-you know.”

I hide as much of my face as possible behind my drink, having forgotten about it.

I smile shyly.

He wanted to talk cliché; I do not think it gets worse than shy smiles.

“Well I’m Rupert, as you know, call me Rupert!”

“Okay,” He laughs and nurses his drink for a few moments, watching the activity.

“Do people actually call you Rupert, or do you get Lestrade a lot?”

His expression is kind, amused.

“Both I suppose, Lestrade from the crazier lot, but most fans are pretty damn decent about it.”

I stare at him.

I can only imagine the number of fans who would bridle at being called crazy.

Claim that he is insulting them, shaming their passion, or some other excuse to complain.

It is the only thing I can think of for awhile as he is suddenly talking with a staff member.

I do not know. I do not think it mattered.

He saw it from his point of view.

Every other girl and boy on the internet had their opinions.

If not worse of their own fellow fans.

Their favorite actors, singers, bands, writers and so on.

It really was contradictory.

I frown and suck on my cosmo.

“I’ll admit, I’ve had a few nutso encounters, you know someone mistook me for Sherlock once?”

I am dragged down from my thoughts, disbelieving.

How do you mistake Rupert Graves for Sherlock Holmes.

Benedict and Rupert do not even look alike, let alone remotely similar.

It was boggling.

I had no problem calling the unlucky person a ‘dumbass’ in my head.

Since open opinions were becoming so popular.

It was just a second before he launched into the tale.

Taking a breather every so often, sweeping dregs off his ale.

In reality little time actually passed from the moment he took notice of me.

Up to the point where he began his story.

And was then dragged off by someone he knew.

Minutes ticked by.

My cosmo was gone.

I got another and a shot of skyy.

I like that they had skyy.

Vanilla too.

This made me happy.

And I allowed myself the rare opportunity to embrace the tingling in my stomach.

Curling my fingers.

I could get to like this.

Just keep the famous people away.

And the drinks coming.

I would be okay.

“Don’t I know you?”

I turn my head just barely and flinch.

Jesus Christ.

“Yeaah, I do don’t I? You’re the girl from the stairs- ‘Manda!”

I could have slipped down from my stool.

I could have left right then.

I could have avoided what I knew was coming.

Instead I stayed put.

Because I think…

Somewhere deep down.

I wanted it to happen.

Sometimes that is enough to ruin the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mucho thanks to **CeeJayOne** , **Lalalola** and other Kudos bringers.
> 
> You made my day, thank you big for reading, I'm glad you like it!


	7. Name.

When you meet people at conventions.

There is this unspoken agreement between you and this person.

You will be the best of friends.

You will share with one another.

You will eat each other’s food.

Wear the others clothes.

Alternate sleeping in each other’s rooms.

Share numbers, text all of the time.

Share events, squeal and gossip as one being.

But when the convention is ended.

You will both pack your bags.

And you will leave.

You will continue texting one another for a week.

It will taper off over the next two.

Eventually it will become a one-sided conversation.

And then nothing.

It is universal knowledge that this will occur.

It is up to both parties to remain neutral while exploiting the wants and desires of their chosen partner.

It is just what is. What has been. What will be until conventions stop.

Now this is not to say it always happens this way.

I have experienced seeing people walk away with very good friends.

A girlfriend in one case.

That is not the case for Mary, John, and I.

Our friendship has ended ahead of schedule.

And for some reason I am painfully aware of this as Martin calls for his wife.

It is as though somebody has grabbed my chin and wrenched my head around a few times.

Like I have been given whiplash.

And cannot seem to recover.

Suddenly the vertigo seems impossible.

My head is alight with a million thoughts at once.

My inner fangirl is distraught. My inner fanfiction writer is breathing the inspiration.

My inner me is preparing the burial rites to my funeral.

For I know I will not leave this the way I came.

Amanda has slipped away from her beloved fans; they are crying a few things.

She laughs, and responds to her husband at last.

“Dear God, they got any scotch?” is her immediate inquiry, ignoring me.

Thank you.

God I am so alone right now.

“Aye, hey this is the girl I was talking about- er, what’s your name dear?” Martin starts casually.

My lips are tight, pursed. My ears had to be red.

“Savs…” I whisper just loud enough, not trusting my voice.

“Savs, yeah this is _Sa_ \- her.” He looks at me funny, like he thought I was making a joke.

I did not see the joke. I avoid this look. “Savs, really, that’s your name.”

He did not believe me.

Tough. “Yes?” I shoot him a look of my own, a quiet simmer.

He gets the picture.

“Yes.. Savs then.”

Amanda has gotten what she wanted and takes a drink.

I can smell it from here.

That _is_ strong alcohol.

“Right, what was the question?” I fumble with my hands and watch my knees.

“I’m Savs.”, “This is… _Savs_ , the damsel in distress.” Martin quips with a smile, I have seen that smile before.

He uses it on the red carpet.

I wonder what he really had to say about me.

His kindness rested heavy on my heart.

It would be there for the rest of my life.

But this smile causes a niggling at the back of my head.

“Damsel in distress? Wha- oh! Oh that damsel in distress, oh that’s neat.” She looks at me now.

A new light in her eyes.

She has pretty eyes.

She has a pretty smile, and a dimple.

Or two.

Or maybe I am trying to make them up.

I flush and cannot meet her.

 _That_ damsel in distress. Now it does not get anymore cliché than that.

Actors referring to you as a damsel.

How humiliating.

Embarassment replaces whatever hopes I might have had at a normal introduction.

In fact, it makes me seriously regret not walking away.

I could still do it.

I should.

“Well I’m glad to see you on your feet! And walking on your own, nasty things twisted ankles,”

“Yeah”, “So is Savs your real name?” I should have seen that coming.

Actually I should not have.

It was not even on my mind.

“Yeah, easier then the whole thing I guess.” Most people have called me ‘Savs’ for awhile now.

I no longer replied to ‘Savvy.’ Or my full name even, not nearly as much.

Although it was hard not to turn your head when you hear it called.

That always irritated me. You know?

“So what’s the whole thing?” She smiles.

“Wait, let me guess eeeeeh- Sally?” Martin interjects rather quickly, a curious glint in his eyes.

They are hard and blue, but rounded with adrenalin.

My cosmo is gone again.

Darn.

Not even close either.

I shake my head. Amanda tugs her smile even wider.

How is that possible.

“Sharon?” She offers. I shake my head again.

“Savs, Sav, does it actually have a ‘v’ in it?” martin prods. He turns to the barman for a beverage.

Amanda takes up, “I don’t know many names with ‘v’ in it…”

“I never said it had any of those letters in it.”

She glances at me, then back at the ceiling.

“You never said it didn’t either.”

“I never mentioned letters at all.”

She smirks briefly. “Touche,”

“I’m gonna go with Shirley then.” Martin slips easily into conversation, nibbling at a lighter scotch.

I give him an eyeball.

What were they doing with this?

They could not be that bored that they would sit here and try to guess my name-

“No, no not a Shirley, she doesn't look like a Shirley at all!” Amanda’s gaze bores into me.

Suddenly she is intent, hand tightening on her glass.

“Rebecca.” Oh! I am surprised; she sees this and smirks big.

“Is that it? Rebecca? Got it didn't I!” It takes me a moment, shock on my face before nodding.

“What?” The smirk falls, disbelief takes up residence.

Rebecca is probably my favorite name of all time.

I want my name to be Rebecca. More than anything.

But it is not.

She fakes a crest-fallen look. “Oh bugger, ehm..” A thoughtful one now.

I smile a little now, this seems to encourage her.

There is something like a warm sun in my chest, building with every guess.

I am not sure what it is just yet.

But I like it.

“Can you give us a hint?” martin eyes me over his glass, I eye him back.

A lifted eyebrow. How _do_ they do that?

I wish I could lift my eyebrows individually.

He is reading my face, I flush and smile a little bigger.

“That ruins the guessing-“

“Guessing? What are we guessing?”

I start and slide instinctively off of the stool.

Upon hitting the floor I am made self aware of just how short I am.

I had forgotten on my perch.

This embarrasses me and Martin chuckles at it.

“Oh don’t be shy,” He turns to the new party “Savs sounds so forced, so we’re guessing her real name.”

Do not be shy. How could I not.

I did not dare focus anywhere near the newcomer, I know who he is.

Everyone here should know who he is.

And he is a very easy foot taller than me.

That is a little more ‘up’ than I am willing to go just for a glance at his face.

I knew what it looked like.

I purposefully avoid any close contact, shifting over to Martin’s other side.

They notice this, they say nothing.

I am not the clingy type.

I am the shut-up and hope it goes away type.

I am, once again, back to square one.

“Savs, Savs..” He sounds like he is tasting it.

I grumble to myself, good lord how did he even do that.

Tasting it, that was not even him. That was me.

I know this is not going to turn out well.

I hate it.

I am nervous for it.

“Don’t think I've met a Savs.”

Martin says something, I block it out.

I do everything in my power to forget where I am in that moment.

I should not have gotten comfortable.

Fun was over-rated in the face of beautiful people.

“And what, you’re guessing her real name?” I can hear the light incredulity in his tone.

What about it?

Because I did not want to give it out.

So they took it upon themselves to guess it.

“Savs, _Savs_ , sounds like Savannah.” He states bluntly.

I look up without thinking about it. I glance around.

I had actually succeeded in blocking them out.

And hearing my name brought me right back.

But it was so random, no one knew me here.

I look around suspiciously, curious.

 _What…_ I am confused.

I hated it when that happened.

“Savannah?” I flip around in surprise, Martin having repeated the name.

“Yes?” I answer automatically, not thinking.

Only after do I realize he said my name.

“Well that wasn't so hard, should have thought of that in the first place!” He throws a hand up.

“I thought about it but you know, so many nick-names are completely irrelevant these days-“

Amanda sets off into a reel on nicknames and their stupidity.

Or the stupidity they could retain.

“Find your room alright?” I turn away from the chattering couple and actually look at Benedict.

He looks like any other day.

Recently washed hair, brush ran through it, same blue eyes, same cheekbones.

Same face.

Just casual Benedict.

Nothing special.

Nothing special at all.

I do not know how I feel about this.

A heaviness settles ominously across my breast.

“My room? What?”, “He gives a curt nod “Yeah? You know, your own bed.”

My own bed.

I did not understand. What in the name of cookies was he talking about.

Honestly confused and a little irritated that I did not understand.

“Yeah I know where my room is? Kinda had to check-in to be here.”

It might have come out a little more sarcastic than was necessary.

He lifts, dare I say it, an _eyebrow_ at me.

I frown.

That was a vaguely condescending look, and I can almost hear it before he speaks.

“Well for knowing where your bed is you do a bad job of sleeping in it.”

What even.

What was that supposed to mean?

Was he calling me a dog? Someone who slept outside? How would he know?

Was he even calling me anything?

I think I was taking this a lot more personal than I should have been.

“What the hell does that even mean?” My voice swings from high to low.

He gives me a look.

I give him the same look right back.

He rolls a shoulder and looks down at me.

I try not to let the height difference bother me.

I do a bad job of it.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” He grunts.

“Which is? Why wouldn't I sleep in my bed?” Gone is the quivering leaf.

Here is the irritable teenager, woken from her pre-convention slumber.

“I don’t know, why wouldn't you?” He stops leaning on one foot, and shares the weight.

Standing all the way up.

I do not like that.

I tell him so with my expression.

That is not fair.

“Hold on, let’s ask ourselves why you would sleep in an elevator to start with hmm?”

Then I deflate.

I shrink, the angry teenager flutters off with clipped wings.

The elevator.

You had to be _fucking_ kidding me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. It's a tad longer than usual.
> 
> Again, thanks for all the love you guys! It makes me warm inside :3


	8. Stubborn.

Stop.

You have to stop.

You have to realize.

Right in those few seconds, every thought possible to man was in my head.

Everything at once.

It was a madhouse, a race for something logical, a witty comeback perhaps.

In that very, _very_ short time Benedict blew through his nose, and turned away from me.

It was that right there.

The huff of annoyance.

The lack of interest.

The want to escape.

The _boring_ written into his face.

That reminded me of our age difference, why age? I do not know.

But it did.

Suddenly I saw a man who could be my father.

I saw his actions as disappointed.

I saw them as chastising.

I saw them as him trying to make sense of my actions.

And failing.

Because I was stubborn. Naturally.

And when I say I am stubborn I kid you not.

I remember my mother.

I remember my grandmother.

I remember my other grandmother.

My fathers’ side of the family.

I blanch.

Martin and Amanda did not hear, they do not care.

Benedict has taken up conversation with them.

Dismissing me.

He was dismissing me.

Like I was some kind of child.

How- what.

I was no child.

Yes I was.

I was as childish as they came.

I was immature and struggling to look adult.

Or maybe he was just waiting.

_Maybe he was just waiting_.

It had only been a few minutes.

I was standing there like a loon.

I could feel the shock and horror on my face.

I could feel the oozing disappointment in my gut.

The need to rationalize the whole situation into something not so impossible.

Not so _fanfiction-y_ , the cliché was going to kill me.

This whole encounter was like something off of the Internet.

And I was very much hating it.

Hating it so much.

It boiled into the humiliation.

And a toxic poison was born.

Benedict Cumberbatch. _Benedict Cumberbatch_.

I knew this poison well, it was not the first time I have felt it.

Though usually it is unexplained, random, uncalled for.

A sizzling hatred at the back of my chest.

Goading me into loathing him.

The deer in headlights transforms into a wolfish sneer.

Do not do it.

Stop while you are ahead. Socially awkward me.

Does not know how to handle situations under pressure.

I should not have come.

This time I know it to be true.

I should have walked away.

I should have left that stool and ignored the nosy actor.

I should have smiled at his wife, and excused myself.

I never should have told them my name.

Never should have let them guess.

Why me.

The phrase most used by any fangirls lips.

I do not.

I give a very huffy shrug of my shoulders.

I blush fiercly.

I bare my teeth.

And I throw my fist at the tall man.

At Benedict Cumberbatch.

I was lucky.

Or unlucky.

To have distracted him by my show of throwing a small fit.

Because I catch him under the right side of his jaw.

Of course I was trying to hit his shoulder.

Not his face.

That was not supposed to happen.

He should not have leaned down.

It was his fault.

His fault. Not mine.

It all happens in seconds.

Perhaps no one saw.

Of course they do.

They are his fans, they never stop watching him.

Somebody shouts. They are angry.

I do what I do best and disappear.

I am small. I have always been small.

This is to my advantage.

My face his hot, my whole body is hot.

I have made a mistake.

Should not have.

How stupid.

I think he might have tried to grab me, upset no doubt.

To hand me to the staff no doubt.

But I have tripped across the floor and I make my way through the still unconcerned fans.

Of course I cannot escape unscathed.

One girl, a tall brutish thing manages to catch my cheek in a harsh smack.

She must have seen.

She says angry things at me.

I ignore her, holding my stinging cheek.

Now _this_ really was straight out of a storybook.

Had to be.

In all of this I was still thinking about how implausible all of this was.

I am out the door.

The bouncer spies me.

The troublemaker

How did he know?

But he says nothing. Does nothing.

Simply glares at me and chases me down the hall with that gaze.

I am humiliated, angry, hurt, confused, upset, furious, sad, disappointed.

Everything I should be after a show like that.

Punching Benedict Cumberbatch.

I suppose you could say it was unusual.

Except that I am known for striking out at people that make me uncomfortable.

Make me feel bad.

I mean there is a reason my mother and I no longer spoke.

That my grandmother kicked me out of her house.

That my father’s side of the family will no longer see me.

It is a horrible weakness.

Unfortunately he is not the first to be on the receiving end of my fist.

Though he is the first actor.

If that meant anything.

At the very least I am just barely assured that I have seen worse at a convention.

I have even thrown a few punches at past excursions.

Just never gotten caught.

Sometimes you just have to defend yourself.

Though I do not think _that_ qualified as self-defense.

Oh the fandom would hate me forever.

I would never be allowed back here.

And I was surprisingly okay with that.

Right this second I just want to go home.

I want to curl up under my blankets and forget the world outside exists.

I want to play cruel love-songs and joke about soulmates and reincarnation.

Because I am that sort of person.

I have come to my room, stumbling with my key. I am safe.

As safe as I will ever be.

The door is a solid weight at my back. It supports me.

I stop being quiet and cry out loud.

What a stupid convention.

What stupid people.

Stupid Benedict Cumberbatch. It was his entire fault!

All of it.

I curl up on the floor, back against the door.

Why did it have to be him?

This was so inconcievable.

This was disgusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha-haaa yes there is a vague purpose surrounding this.
> 
> This is based loosely around a true story, something that happened at a convention I went too about four-five years ago. It was a lot more dramatic than this, but what happened then was also a whole lot worse than a little hook to the jaw. It does happen, even to the important people, so smooth out your knickers and read on.


	9. Home.

I almost forgot what it was like for time to move slowly.

Hours passed.

Early morning gave way to mid-morning.

Early afternoon.

When I open my eyes I am on the floor. Again.

The cold floor.

Like someone forgot to turn the heat on.

Momentary panic grips my chest, I suck in a breath.

I do not like this.

So I get up.

I get to my feet.

I trudge over to my bed.

The blankets are chilled, but quickly warmed.

They are covetous, devouring the small of me with greedy ease.

I sleep again.

It is hunger to wake me next.

A rude noise against the fading image of my dreams.

I groan. I do not want to get up. I do not want to go out there.

I have not had the luck of slowly forgetting the past events.

No. I remember them with startling clarity.

I remember and I am horrified.

How could I have been so disillusioned?

Reality is never that kind.

Not to people like me.

The people who slide through life just barely.

The people who look and judge their peers.

Is that not what I am? A judge of my peers.

A cruel mediator between what is right or wrong in the eyes of society.

While not having a clue myself.

I punched a famous man.

The crown jewel of British acting.

The man who gave me his bed when I could not be bothered to find my own.

The man who guessed my name.

The man who made me realize I am not nearly as sneaky as I thought.

The man who made me feel inadequate.

The man who made me feel like I was wrong.

I was not wrong.

But I was sorry.

I over-reacted to the nth degree.

I even punched him for no reason.

No, there was a reason.

It just was not a good one.

It was a childish one. A decision made suddenly in the heat of a girl who felt small.

In the confines of my hotel room I can accept this.

I accept that the blame is mine.

But it is Sunday. It is time to go home.

I will pack.

I will leave.

And I will live the rest of my life knowing, that I made a horrible mistake.

And never apologized.

I will not face him again.

I will not be the bigger person, and seek him out.

I will hide behind my luggage. And leave San Fransisco.

I will return to my home.

I will probably cry more than once.

I will woe over my loss.

And eventually it will eat a hole through my heart.

Leaving me incomplete for all of eternity.

Okay maybe that was over doing it, but it is how I feel.

Right this second.

Horrible

I need to leave. Need to go home.

Before the staff put out a proper search for me.

Before some girl or boy recognizes me from the event.

Before I get beaten up for my simple mistake.

My big mistake

I groan.

This was all so stupid.

I was going home.

I get up from my bed and turtle around my room.

I pick up my scattered clothes.

I stuff crumpled papers into obscure pockets.

Fill used bags with food I have obtained.

Admire and then admonish myself for buying such pretty trinkets.

Realize that I have very little spending money left.

Desire to visit the vendors’ room.

Decide against it.

Contemplate the best route home.

I am complete. I am dressed. I am ready to go.

I do.

Swiping my keys into the tiny envelope they came in.

With one last glace I look over the room, grimace, and shut the door.

I know this feeling well.

The knowledge that I am leaving something of great excitement.

The emptiness spreading slow fingers across my chest where joy once laid.

I would go home to my son and continue raising him.

I would work. I would live. And I would give him everything I could.

My time for me was done.

Mommy mode kicked in.

Even if mommy _did_ make an awful mistake.

Why me. Those stupid words again.

Alas it would soon be behind me, all over. Gone forever.

I would never have to worry about meeting the man again.

Seeing him.

Knowing him.

All of that dream-stuff that people fluffed about.

You know, it really was not for me.

I was that person who did better stuck in a room with a blanket, watching it from afar.

Up close? Yeah we see what happens when I get close to people.

With one last look at the front lobby I stiffen.

My heart flutters helplessly.

I would never come back here.

I was leaving.

I leave.

And daylight feels so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD IS IT OVER? I don't know.


	10. Storybook- Authors note

Alright so I'm a little flabbergasted at the amount of interest this story has thus far cropped. Really it was only supposed to be one or two chapters about a girls experience (albeit abstract) at a convention that hasn't even happened yet. So yes, I'll admit now it was based off of a dream, and I have changed peoples names and identities accordingly. No, the story is not meant as a romantic fic at all, and as I said, exceeded my expectations. 

I'm thoroughly overjoyed with the people who have commented, telling me they like it and to keep going. Except with the way that I was writing this it was not  _meant_ to be any longer than a few chapters. I've already stretched it with 9. I have ended this particular read BUT: I want to know who would be interested in me continuing this fic with a sort of sequel? It would be written in my own style but the chapters would be longer, more in depth and story book format. 

This will require some return comments, not just a load of kudos. I want to hear what you guys want! 

Again, thank you so much for your encouragement and those of you who commented, you have no idea how much that makes me want to write, plus it's good for making friends!

Can I get a super applause, by the way, for Lalalola? Chick you make me smile so wide with your comments, I love you <3

Alas, I hope to hear from you! 

 

-  _Kansas_


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